On The Horse That Threw You
by Bellatlas
Summary: When Alfred Jones is selected to surf in the Kirkland International Surf Off, a huge surfing competition in memory of legendary surfer Arthur Kirkland, he soon finds that he is in over his head. Upon finding that the legendary surfer is indeed still alive, Kirkland may be Alfred's only hope... that is, if he can actually get him to help.
1. Not From Around Here

Alright, here's chapter one!

This is a Surf's Up AU, however, you do not need to know the movie to follow along.

And let's just go ahead and get this out of the way: as a disclaimer (for this and future chapters): This is, of course, based off of Hetalia by Hidekaz Himaruya with many plot elements from Surf's Up, directed by Chris Buck and Ash Brannon, so lots of credit goes out to them. The countries in here are not meant to depict any real-world countries or opinions of those countries, just the characters.

Additionally, you may recognize this story from my old account (still up if you want to double check), but it is being revamped and posted on this here shiny new account. Enjoy!

This won't stick to the movie's plot like glue, though, and will probably deviate a bit. :) Thanks for checking this out, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

" _You look like you're about to throw up."_ Matthew's voice sounds from the phone in that electronic, walkie-talkie-like grit that is almost realistic, but not quite. The video chat picture is grainy and lagging behind the audio, too - no doubt a result of the cell reception Matthew gets from that little 'middle of nowhere' northern town they both call home. The phone's just not the same as real life.

" _I never thought I'd live to see the day when_ Alfred Jones _gets seasick."_

"Bro, seriously, give me a minute." Alfred holds a hand over his mouth, doing his best to breathe deeply and keep his breakfast down as his boat rises and falls with the choppy crests of the sea as it pulls up to dock. Matthew looks on from where he is confined to a blurry, yet concerned, block of pixels on the phone held up by Alfred's remaining hand.

" _Are you okay?"_

Alfred takes his hand away from his mouth shakily, but knowing better than to open it, just nods.

" _Look. Maybe it's not the best idea to go out on the water right now. I mean, if you're getting seasick from being on that big boat, then just imagine what it will be like out on the waves with your surfboard."_

Alfred almost laughs. "No way. I'm not _seasick,_ you big oaf," he lies, winking. "I just can't believe I'm _here!"_ He flips the camera around to show the approaching luscious tropical beach, packed chock full of camera crews, surfers, and viewers for the upcoming competition. Huge mango-colored flowers balloon out of the brush and foam-capped waves the height of apartment buildings thunder along the coast with all the force of a hurricane.

Alfred flips his phone back around to talk to his brother again. "Beautiful, ain't it?"

Matthew simply gapes like a fish out of water. " _Alfred, those_ waves!" He hardly even notices the island.

"I know," Alfred breathes, barely containing his excitement as he lifts his eyes over the screen of his phone to catch one just before the crash.

It does nothing to quell his brother's worry, though. " _Alfred, why don't you take it easy for a day. You can just look around and get adjusted. I'm sure all of the clothes you brought with you from here are too warm, anyway. You could stock up on some summery things."_

"Matt," Alfred rolls his eyes before suddenly stumbling forward as the boat scrapes the edge of the dock with a jolt and a horrible metal-on-metal sound. "Matt, you know me. I'm going to spend every second on the water. I'll _live_ out there! Just imagine it!"

" _I'm trying_ not _to."_ Matthew runs a hand through his long hair, deliberating. " _Alfred. Now don't kill me for saying this, but are you sure you can handle these waves? The ones here at home are, what? One_ tenth _that size?"_

Alfred can't help but pout a bit, bottom lip jutting out just so. "Have _some_ faith in me, Matt. A talent scout _brought_ me here. He actually traveled all the way to our depressing little town to take me here. The Kirkland International Surfing Competition; it's huge! That's gotta count for something, right?"

Matthew rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. It was only then that Alfred remembered, a bit guiltily, the time zone difference. He probably woke his brother up in the middle of the night, and before some big exam at that. Behind him, Matthew's dorm room is still dark, roommate sleeping and oblivious of their video conversation. " _You_ begged _him to take you, Alfred_ ," he finally says.

"But he _did_." Alfred's getting a bit defensive now. If Matthew has learned anything these past seventeen years, he'll have the sense not to push Alfred towards throw a tantrum, even he _is_ practically an adult.

" _Right, right."_

The boat is all hooked up to the dock now, and other sought out competitors from his region of the world, bags in tow, are trickling off the entrance ramp into a mob of paparazzi. Heck, one person just hops right off the boat and cannon-balls into the water, never mind his bags. The cameras are all over that.

"Listen Mattie, I gotta go. I'll catch you later okay?"

" _Wait!"_ Matthew calls as Alfred shoves the phone into his jeans pocket, not even bothering to end the call.

"Hmm?" Alfred fumbles through his pocket again for his phone. "What was that?"

" _Er...just,"_ he stutters, obviously overtired " _have fun, buddy. But,"_ he leans in and points a finger to the camera, going into mother bear mode (yet again), " _stay safe, okay? In the end, it's just a sport."_

Alfred rolls his eyes. "Just a sport. Right. Like I said, I'll call you back in a bit."

And this time, he remembers to end the call.

* * *

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a sort of unconscious sibling rivalry must still linger, for even as Alfred practically boils alive in his surfwear, he refuses to admit that Matthew was right about the heat. The wetsuit that has always kept him warm in those frigid brackish waters back home now constricts him in a humid bundle of eventual heat stroke, even with his usual gloves stripped off.

He sinks down into the water, just his eyes and nose above the surface, and lets a small wave wash over him. It doesn't do a whole lot to cool him off though, as he's gotten used to the water temperature by now, and it wasn't very cold to begin with.

Alfred huffs out through his nose like a bull, bubbles spilling out from under his nostrils.

He really does need to go back to shore and buy some surf gear, but then he'll be all wet and sticky, and sand will cling to his feet and seafoam to the wrists of the wetsuit and...and coming out of the water is just a generally uncomfortable experience.

It seems as though the world isn't giving much of a choice in the matter, though, for as soon as he makes up his resolve to stay out just a bit longer, he hears a loud "Watch out!" and barely has time to duck back beneath the surface before the nose of a black and white striped surfboard comes barreling overhead, still managing to clip the back of his head with the fin on the underside of the board.

Alfred bursts up for air, gasping for breath, and slowly climbs up onto his board for solid ground.

"Are you okay?"

Alfred looks up to where the silver-haired owner of the offending board is paddling back his way, surfboard leash fanning out behind behind him.

"Yeah," Alfred laughs. "Just a bit startled. Besides," Alfred winks jokingly, "you weren't going that fast."

"Hey!" he smirks back deviously, "In that case, why are you bleeding?"

"Huh?" Alfred reaches up to touch the back of his head, a thin red watery sheet slipping over his fingers when he brings them back. "Oh shoot!"

The other surfer laughs back loudly, turning his board in the direction of shore. "Come on! I was heading in anyway. I'm starving!"

"Alright, alright, I'm coming." Alfred lays down on his stomach and scoops his hands down into the water. "Name's Alfred, by the way.

"Gilbert." He stops paddling to extend a hand for a handshake, which Alfred graciously takes. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Alfred runs a hand through his wet hair, plastered to his face. "That obvious, is it?"

"In that wetsuit? Just a bit. Jeez, how are you not burning up?"

"Oh, I am," Alfred laughs, letting his arms dangle in the water and momentum carry the board forward for a moment. "I'll need to buy something else in a bit."

"I thought you people wore bathing suits or something under those."

"Oh, we do!" Alfred clarifies quickly. He can't have anyone confused about that. "But with the size of _these_ waves, well...I'll need to get something a little more likely to stay _on_ in a wipeout _._

Gilbert chuckles.

"What?"

"Oh nothing, I'm just picturing the cameras' reactions to something like that."

Alfred grimaces. " _Anyway..._ where are you from? I can't really pinpoint that accent." He sees a few red spots on his board when he goes to paddle again. Huh; he must have hit his head harder than the thought.

"Yeah, I move around a lot. My family is German, though."

"Really?" Alfred pipes up excitedly, bleeding forgotten. "Say something in German!"

Gilbert chuckles. "You americans and your obsession with other languages. I don't know a whole lot - that's mainly my parents. Just a few phrases. Awesome accent though, am I right?"

"I suppose," Alfred teases. Somehow, he senses that this guy doesn't need an ego boost. They're now in shallow enough water that they can stand up and walk, but it's at that awkward water level halfway up the calves that makes you want to pick up your feet and march to shore like an idiot.

"Hey Francis!" Gilbert shouts suddenly to a young man with blond, wavy, shoulder-length hair atop a life-guard stand. "I hit this one in the head! Care to help?"

"Oh _gosh,_ Gilbert, really?" He looks at Alfred, the corners of his eyes drawing back in sympathy. Is it really that bad?

"You two know each other?" Alfred asks as they finally make their way onto the muddy part of the shoreline.

"Yeah," Gilbert lowers his eyes and rubs the back of his neck nervously. "We've had several run ins this week."

"Ah." His voice turns into a wince a moment later when the lifeguard blows a whistle and begins to clamber down the tall ladder.

"Holy crow, Gilbert, what did you do? He's probably going to need stitches or something!"

"Stitches? I'm fine!" Alfred insists as he begins to panic.

The two of them completely disregard Alfred, and even Gilbert is starting to look concerned.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asks.

"I'm fine!" he insists again, but decides to resign himself to the seclusion of the ground anyway, behind dozens of tourists' legs as the cameras begin to take notice.

"Here." Francis unties a blue headband from around his head and presses it to the sore spot on Alfred's head as he calls the lifeguard at the next station for a first aid kit.

All around, cameras are inching closer and people are coming back into shore as a result of the whistle.

Alfred hides his face. This is utterly humiliating.

Soon, another lifeguard jogs up, this one a girl with longer, light brown hair, who also seems to know Gilbert and demands that he go get Alfred something to eat.

"You're overreacting," Alfred whines uselessly. "I didn't lose _that_ much blood."

Nevertheless, Gilbert seems eager enough to comply and trots off, coming back several minutes later with... _something._

"Gilbert, what _is_ that?" Alfred eyes the slimy "food" on the stick with apprehension.

"Squid." he answers in an 'isn't it obvious' tone as he takes a bite out of a second one for himself.

"On a stick?"

Gilbert nods.

Are you sure that it's….you know, edible?" The lifeguards continue to clean up the gash on Alfred's forehead, much to his annoyance. He can take care of himself, thank you very much.

"Hey, I'm eating it, aren't I?"

"Yeah, that doesn't exactly mean anything." Alfred frowns.  
Gilbert rolls his eyes, shoving the putrid thing in his face. "Just try it, will you?"

Alfred takes it from his hand tentatively, eyes flicking from the squid to his new supposed friend suspiciously, and finally bites a big piece off with the back corners of his teeth. And, as he thinks he must be tasting the finest delicacy on the island, he realizes that yes, perhaps he _did_ lose that much blood.

* * *

Slightly lengthy author's note (sorry): This is just the setup, we'll go more into depth later. :)

In case you didn't know (some of them weren't that obvious or talked about): Alfred Jones = America as Cody Maverick, Gilbert Beilschmidt = Prussia as Chicken Joe, Francis = France as Lani, Matthew = Canada as Alfred's brother (though I can't really see him being Glen),and the other lifeguard (not in the movie) was Hungary.

Sorry if that's an awkward mix of characters. It's just sorta what flowed. I'll still have the characters retain their personalities as best I can. I can't imagine Prussia with Chicken Joe's personality. XD He'll just be Alfred's friend there, like Joe was Cody's.

And feedback and reviews would mean the world! Thanks a million for reading!


	2. Wipeout

You know I'm doing too much chemistry when I keep accidentally typing 'sulfur' instead of 'surfer'.

* * *

It turns out that everything on a stick tastes good: weird foreign sausages, fish, even that mystery ball that's _probably_ meat (though the jury's still out on that one). Or, maybe it's just this island. Everything tastes better on it. Even the air seems fresher, sweeter somehow.

Good food, sun, a new friend. All things considered, Alfred really doesn't have any right to complain...not that anything will stop him from complaining.

"Look at that." Alfred sneers in disdain as he raises his sunglasses to watch a monster of a wave roll inward toward the coast. They've both been banned from the water for the time being.

"Mhmm," Gilbert hums, too lost in absorbing the sun's heat to pay much attention to anything Alfred says. He didn't even even get a beach towel; he just flopped over into the hot white sand and stayed there.

"Come on, " Alfred says, hopping up and inadvertently spraying sand onto his friend. "If we just walk down by some of the other lifeguard stands, maybe we can finally sneak past Francis and Elizavetta and get back out there."

"No go. They've _told_ all of the other lifeguards," Gilbert groans, sitting up and brushing the sand out of his hair.

"Aww, come on, bro! We've got to at least _try_ to get past them and back into the water."

"We _have_ tried. Three times!"

"Yeah, but-"

Gilbert holds up a hand. "Trust me. We're lucky enough that Francis caught us all those times. If Elizaveta does... " he shudders. "They'll let _you_ back in a bit, after they're sure that your head won't start bleeding again. Apparently _I'm_ a safety hazard that's banned until who knows when."

Alfred had to chuckle at that. "They're not wrong."

A chorus of ' _oohs'_ from a crowd of onlookers gets both of their heads to snap up as a practicing surfer flips of the top of a wave and lands back down on top of it.

"Holy!" Alfred runs a hand through his hair. "We _have_ to get back out there. How can we compete with _that_ unless we get some decent practice in?"

"Ah, just relax and sit back for now." Gilbert sprawls out on the sand once again. "And besides," he jerks his thumb toward the surfer on the wave. "Ivan? Champ. I don't think he's lost anything in the past five or six years. Don't beat yourself up trying to one-up him."

"What, so you're not even going to try?" Alfred's getting a bit too flustered now. "We've come too far not to."

Gilbert squints up at him, incredulous. "Well of _course_ I'm going to try! Look: you worry too much. That's all I'm saying. No more, no less."

Alfred sighs before resigning himself to the sand once again, only lasting a few seconds in the uncomfortable silence. "Sooo...the weather's...nice?"

Gilbert barely holds back his laughter. "Small talk, Alfred? Really?"

Alfred huffs. "Do you have any better ideas for something to do?"

"Lie here." Gilbert folds his hands behind his head.

"No, something _interesting!"_

" _Fine!"_ Gilbert groans. "We can talk as long as I get to lie here. No weather, though."

"Deal," Alfred chuckles. "Okay, so why did you come to this surfing competition?"

"Umm...to surf?" Gilbert's eyebrows draw together underneath his sunglasses.

"No, I mean why _this_ one?"

"Oh gosh," Gilbert rubs the back of his neck. "I just love to surf, I guess. And a talent scout came, and, I mean, this could be my big break, you know? What about you?"

"Same." Alfred is back to gazing at the ocean. "Plus, it's the _Kirkland_ annual surf off."

"Kirkland?" Gilbert's eyebrows draw even closer together in confusion. "What's so important about the name of it?"

Alfred looks over at Gilbert. "Kirkland? As in _Arthur_ Kirkland?"

Gilbert just stares. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Dude." Alfred's eyes grow and he leans away from his friend, sitting up. " _Please_ tell me you're joking."

Gilbert blinks.

"Oh my _gosh..._ Okay, so Kirkland was this surfer-"

"I figured."

"No, you don't understand. He wasn't just a surfer; this guy was a _legend!_ He made surfing what it is today, made it _known_. There was _nothing_ this guy couldn't do!"

"You seem like quite a fan." Gilbert laughs.

"You have no idea." Alfred sighs, tilting his head back against the sand as a cloud comes over and offers some temporary relief from the scorching hot sun. "A few years ago, he came to my town. No idea why; this place is in the middle of nowhere, but he came anyway…gave this speech at my school about never giving up...I think that's when I got serious about surfing."

They both sit in silent contemplation for a moment before Gilbert breaks it. "You're such as sap, Alfred," he jokes.

"Heh. Maybe."

"But anyway, this guy is still alive? I haven't seen him...or heard of him for that matter."

"I wish." Alfred sighs. "No. Four years ago, on this island actually, he got brave and went into the boneyards. Never came back out."

"The boneyards?" Gilbert asks, propping himself up on his elbows. " _Those_ boneyards?" He motions down to the end of the beach, where the sandy strip ends in a sheer rock face. "I was walking near there yesterday."

"Yeah." Alfred squints off into the distance at it, both shocked and amazed. He hadn't thought that the boneyards would be so...exposed. It's out there in open right along with the rest of the beach. "I think so, anyway. Come on, let's go check."

Gilbert groans, but doesn't protest when he has to leave his warm spot in the sand this time.

And, when they finally trudge down the shoreline, boards in tow, they see it can be nothing else _but_ the boneyards. Sharp, narrow, jagged rocks jut violently out of the water every few meters, looking a lot like large knives and weathered arrowheads just waiting for their chance to slice somebody in half. Torrential waves pound between them, smashing against the rock face mercilessly. The whole area is marked off by neon orange buoys and an array of lifeguard stands.

"There it is," Alfred breathes, pointing to the nearest jagged rock. Most of a partially eroded wooden surfboard is bolted to the rock as a memorial. "That was Arthur Kirkland's board...or at least all they could find of it."

"Whoa," Gilbert whispers in awe.

Suddenly, a sizeable stone comes out of the blue and crashes into the jagged rock just underneath the tip of the surfboard.

"Hey!" Alfred spins on his heel, making a spiral dip in the moist sand under his foot.

There is a group of three off to their left, the middle one a tall, sturdy blonde holding a large striped board- the one on the wave that Gilbert had been talking about not ten minutes before. His hair is still dripping with saltwater.

"Higher this time," he says with conviction, a oddly off putting and innocent smile across his face. He hands a kid only a few years younger than Alfred another stone.

"What are you doing? Stop that!"

The next stone hits home: right in the belly of the board his idol rode. And Alfred lunges.

He knows in the back of his mind that he could never really hurt Ivan: he's too big. But, that won't stop him from trying. So much rage boils in his blood that he somehow manages to pin him down and tries to claw the stones from his hands.

"Whoa! Buddy!" Gilbert and one of the (not so) little jerk's minions pulls him off, and a crowd starts to trickle forward.

"You little-!" Alfred can't even think of a word to follow, and is honestly pretty glad that Gilbert is still holding his arms behind his back. "You'd better be glad he's not here," Alfred spits. "He would mop the floor with you!"

The crowd " _oohs"_ in the way crowds do with any half hearted insult, even one as bad as Alfred's.

Ivan looks up at him, standing back up and refusing the many hands held out to help him. He's unharmed, and the only evidence that anything ever happened is some wet sand in his hair. His placid face betrays nothing. "It is _I_ who mopped the floor with _him."_ He gestures to the half-broken memorial board, a smirk finally grazing his face. "So unless you can do better…" He leaves the challenge hanging as he turns to leave.

It's a rhetorical statement, Alfred knows. But even so, he can't control the snarky "Oh you'd better believe I can!" that bursts forth from his mouth.

Gilbert's eyebrows raise in pure shock, but a wide grin slowly spreads a moment after. He pumps a fist in the air and lets out a loud whoop. The crowd is quick to mimic.

And, before he can even realize what exactly is going on, the crowd thickens and begins to push Alfred and Ivan towards the water, muttering of a surf-off, much to Alfred's pleasure and overeager sense of revenge.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred sees Francis and Elizaveta stand up, leaning over their stands worriedly, but they're both useless against the force of the crowd.

Alfred takes advantage and doesn't waste a second before diving in, paddling out as soon as the water is deep enough.

Ivan follows, disregarding Alfred and lazily scanning the water for a good wave.

Soon, they both see it: a massive swell several waves back- the size of a good building. Alfred locks eyes with Ivan for a moment before viciously paddling forward to catch the wave first.

There are about three waves in queue before _his_ wave. The first is pretty sizeable, but with considerable effort, Alfred manages to paddle over the top and plummet down the other side, though his arms burn from the strain. Ivan is far ahead by now, looking rather smug. How?

The next wave, however, poses a challenge. It's not as big as the one he wants to ride, but still pretty freaking big, perhaps the size of a small one-story house. Alfred begins to paddle, reaching deep into the wave to propel himself over it. But he's not going _over_ it. No, this thing is huge! He's going _up_ the wave. His arms start burning fiercely and he feels the drag of gravity pulling him back down.

Now, technically speaking, gravity isn't a law, it's a theory. But, Alfred thinks that's rather stupid since everyone has seen its work. It's snatched planes from the sky, been harnessed into entertainment for roller coasters, and been the culprit of many awkward tripping incidents... and it doesn't stop doing its job now. As the wave simply becomes too steep to paddle over, gravity sweeps in and and pushes Alfred down. He falls into the water at the base of the wave, which quickly crashes on top of him.

The leash attaching Alfred's leg to the board is snapped clean off with the force of the wave. He tumbles beneath the surface, not sure which way is up and which way is down until the buoyancy from the air in his lungs points him the right way.

He barely manages to gulp down a breath of air before another wave crashes and forces him back down, drowning out the muffled gasps of the audience from afar.

Once again, any sense of up and down is lost on Alfred, and by the time he's quit tumbling enough to make out the water surface, another wave crashes and starts the process over again. He's not even able to get a breath before it crashes, feeling nothing but that death-like shriveling and burning in the lungs. This time, it forces him down to the rocky, coral-coated ocean floor. His head smashes against the rock with a sickeningly loud crack, audible even underwater.

And then there's nothing.

* * *

Ivan = Russia as Tank Evans.

Alright. I heard a resounding call for this not to be entirely ship-focused. Thanks for the input!

To all of chapter one's reviewers (if you leave a review and don't want to be mentioned, just lemme know :))

A-Broken-Imagi-NATION: First of all, love your username. Secondly, Thank you! I love this movie, too, but unfortunately, not a whole lot of people I know have heard of it. I took your advice in making Ivan Tank. ;)

thedayislippedaway16: Thank you so much! I think you're right, there isn't really any room to make this ship centered.

AnimeKnightmare: Aww, thanks! Definitely taking your advice on the ships.

Thank you to all of you lovely readers! Any reviews, constructive criticism included of course, mean the world and make writing this so much more meaningful.


	3. No Going Back

Alright- headcount. Who is snowed in right now? I'm not… yet.

* * *

Alfred blinks blearily up at the ceiling. It's wood-thatched, not allowing for a decent air-conditioning system. Only a fan hangs down from a rafter, squeaking and struggling to slice through the uncomfortably humid island air.

And that's when it hits him. This isn't his hotel room. He hardly remembers his hotel room - he was only in it long enough to throw some bags down on the floor and change into his wetsuit, but he can tell you definitively that _this_ isn't it!

He bolts up, feeling adrenaline frost over his veins. There's a brown suede couch underneath him, though, unusually soft, and he quickly sinks back down into it.

He curses and flails his arms in an attempt to get up, accidentally knocking over a flimsy side table and the bowl of mangos on top of it. The fruit bowl clatters noisily to the floor.

Alfred curses again, finally succeeding in getting back up on his feet.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

He looks behind him, shocked to find Francis running into the room.

"Lie back down; we don't need you throwing up over the porch railing again!" He shoves him back down by the shoulders, surprisingly strong, and turns to call out over his shoulder. "Uncle A! He's awake now!"

Alfred winces, his yelling not helping his forming headache. "What?" His voice is hoarse and won't come out easily. "When did I throw up?"

Francis frowns. "You really don't remember any of this, do you?"

Alfred just stares, head spinning, trying his best to take everything in.

"Oh geez. Hold on; I'll be right back." He trots off, looking back once over his shoulder to make sure that Alfred stays seated. "Uncle A!"

Alfred sits back against the couch with his feet flat on the floor, still a bit dazed. He's a bit more relaxed, though, with the confirmation that he hasn't been kidnapped and isn't awaiting torture.

Francis comes back in, doing his best to drag a sleepy, yawning man in behind him.

Upon seeing Alfred, the man perks up, a smug smirk slipping onto his face. He's short - not unusually so, but short enough. He has blond hair that's a mess and long overdue for a cut, and a bit of stubble dotting his chin.

"How's the stomach, surfer-boy?" His tone displays no actual concern, purely amusement.

"Nothing's wrong with my stomach," he groans. "And my name is Alfred."

"Right," he answers sarcastically, going over to a beaten up old fridge and pulling out a jug of orange juice, proceeding to guzzle it straight from the bottle.

Francis shoots his uncle a look, though Alfred can't be sure if it's because of his table manners or because of his behavior as a host. "Don't mind him." He glances at the older man out of the corner of his eyes again. "He's just being a grumpy old man who wants all of the well-meaning neighborhood children to get off his lawn."

"Not off my lawn - out of my house."

Francis disregards the snide comment and continues on. "You hit your head on the reef during a surfing challenge yesterday, " he explains. "You seem to be a magnet for head injuries. I dragged you back to shore - you were awake for that part - and you ended up coughing up a ton of water on the beach...You really don't remember any of this?"

Alfred shakes his head, starting to question his account. "I remember the competition."

"Oh geez," Francis rubs his temples. "Well, long story short, you fainted again and I dragged you back here so that the camera's wouldn't keep getting all up in your business."

Alfred opens his mouth to inform Francis that no, he did not _faint,_ he simply lost consciousness, when he sees the bigger problem. "The cameras got _all_ of that?"

"On national news!" the uncle calls out from the kitchen.

Alfred groans and throws his head back down into the couch pillows. "You're kidding me."

Francis looks at him with a look of pity. "Sorry…"

Suddenly, Francis's uncle's shadow comes over Alfred and he looks up. "So is your head okay?"

"Yeah," he says, fingers grazing over the sore spot on the back of his skull. Pain prickles across it and he winces. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Good then. You'd best be on your way."

"Uncle A!" Francis cries, appalled. "Don't be so insensitive! He got a _concussion."_

"I'm sorry," he says, setting down the orange juice jug. "Would you rather me just cut to the chase and say _get out?"_

Francis's jaw clenches and his fists stay firm by his sides. "You can't just-"

"Oh, but I'm the grumpy old man who wants the kids off of his lawn, don't you remember?"

Alfred never would have expected such a look of strong anger on Francis's face.

"It's really no problem," Alfred says, standing up. His head spins, but he doesn't think either of the other two can tell. "I really have to get back down to the beach anyway."

"See what you did?" Francis points to Alfred and they continue to bicker.

Alfred mutters some apologies and thank you's amidst the argument, and then quietly slips out, leaving the arguing behind after he makes sure that they both know of his departing. A dirt trail leads away from the house, which is completely secluded by the island's jungle. Really, it's a wonder that the underbrush hasn't completely taken over the narrow muddy trail already. Only little specks of sunlight manage to pierce the canopy leaves, giving Alfred a spotted appearance.

He doesn't exactly know where the beach _is,_ but there's only one trail, so it must lead him there eventually, right?. His shoes sink into the mud as he trudges forward; it must have rained last night. With the extra effort it takes to walk through the mud, it's not soon before he's panting. He's only been walking for about thirty minutes when he sees a huge log on the side of the trail: a fallen tree, wet and moss covered, not to mention beetle infested. The bark is nearly black from water damage. Alfred shrugs it off and takes a seat anyway. What is he thinking? He can't go back to the beach _now!_ His wipeout made national news! How is he just supposed to simply step out of the jungle, new and rejuvenated, and win this thing? He's the laughing stock of the surfing world. And he sucks at surfing.

Matthew's right. It's all a game. It's one that he's losing, and one that he doesn't want to play anymore. It's over. It's _all_ over. Alfred lowers his head into his hands, breath suddenly feeling constricted. He was so close, too!

Alfred glances up slightly when he thinks he hears footsteps coming down the trail. At first, Alfred thinks it must just be an animal clomping through the forest, looking for a less obstructed route, but he then realizes that it's too human-like. He glances between his fingers, still covering his eyes, to see Francis's uncle running toward him. He's out of breath, and stumbling every now and then, obviously out of shape, and stops in front of Alfred, holding out a cell-phone. "Francis got this from the beach. Forgot to give it to you," he says between pants. He then practically falls onto the log, sitting next to Alfred.

"Thanks...Mr.A." Alfred's voice is a bit too thick and he clears his throat.

He turns it on and looks at the lock screen, showing the first few words of each text.

 _Mom: Alfred? I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. Answer your phone young man!_

 _Matthew: Oh my gosh! I saw you on the news. I thought you said you would be carefu…  
Mom: Alfred? Honey? Are you alright?_

He doesn't bother with the texts right now.

"You might want to answer them," the older man says, looking at the screen over his shoulder. "Hey," he pauses, looking over the teen. "Are you okay?"

Alfred nods, not trusting his voice again.

"Well you certainly don't _look_ okay."

"Ugh," Alfred groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes. "It's nothing." Silence. "I just can't go back out there. With all those people who saw..."

Mr. A stares at the muddy ground for a few good long moments, seeming to contemplate Alfred's words carefully, and nods. "Well then do you think you can come back to the house for lunch then?"

Alfred looks up, wide-eyed. All of the sarcastic bite from before seems suddenly removed. "Um...sure." It's not like he has anywhere else to go.

"Good then. Come on. Lunch time doesn't stick around all day." He gets up and starts walking back down the path, obviously with more practice walking through the mud than Alfred, who trudges along behind him. "Do you like fish?" he calls back.

In fact, despite having grown up in a fishing town, Alfred has never developed a taste for fish. But heck, if this island can make fermented squid taste good, he'll give it another shot.

* * *

And alas: Uncle A /Mr. A = Arthur Kirkland = England as Big Z!

Thanks to everyone who read and reviews. They mean so much to me and your feedback really keeps me motivated to write!

A Broken Imagini-NATION: Thank you! And thanks for pointing out that error- fixed it.

thedayislippedaway16: Yep, you were right! :)


	4. Kind Of Like Surfing

There is now snow here...  
P.S - sorry if you've been getting weird updates from this. I've been having uploading difficulties.

* * *

"Here you are," Francis chirps, sliding a porcelain white plate of fish out to Alfred, clearly overjoyed that he came back, _and_ that Mr. A isn't being a _total_ butt to their new guest. Visitors must be rare, after all.

Alfred looks down at the fish, pleasantly surprised by the aroma wafting up through the steam. It's seasoned with little orange spices and black grounds of pepper, and accompanied by a pineapple salad on the side.

Upon actually tasting it, though, he has to do his best not scrunch up his nose and wipe his tongue clean with the napkin. Ugh; some taste buds simply don't change, no matter how many times people force you to try a food.

"How is it?" Mr. A asks.

"It's, uh," Alfred swallows, nearly gagging in the process. "It's great! Thanks." He looks back down at the plate dreadfully, counting the number of bites he'll have to take before a polite amount is left

"So, what do you guys do in your free time?" It's a hopeless attempt to both bring attention away from the horrible fish and to end the silence that only the squeaking fan interrupts.

"It's pretty much lifeguard, eat, and sleep for me," Francis says, scooping up a forkful of fish delicately. Alfred winces.

Mr. A pats his nephew on the back. "For me, it's sleep, sleep, and more sleep."

"Unfortunately," Francis mutters, casting a sideways glance at his uncle. "It's really not healthy, you know."

"Never said it was," Mr. A answers, not seeming to care about his sedentary lifestyle.

"How about you?" he asks Alfred.

Alfred has finished a fifth of the fish, using the pineapple to chase the flavor (if you could call that a flavor) away, and doesn't know how much more he can take.

"Um, I mean, I just surf" Alfred raises an eyebrow. He came to the island for the tenth annual Arthur Kirkland Memorial Surfing Competition. What else did they expect from him?

"No, no, no." Mr. A shakes his head. "I mean long term. What do you want to do?"

"Surf," Alfred answers again. Heck, if he could grow a tail and fins and spend the rest of his life out in the open water, he'd do just that. "I mean, I got my diploma a month or two ago, so that leaves most of my time open to surf."

Mr. A's eyebrows furrow. "No college?"

"Well," Alfred rubs the back of his neck and laughs nervously. "I mean, I want to be a professional surfer, and they don't exactly have college degrees for that."

Mr. A stares Alfred straight in the eye for several long seconds as Francis clears his throat nervously.

"No, I suppose they don't," he finally concludes.

Alfred releases his tensed up shoulders. Nothing bothers or angers him more than when people speak out condescendingly about his chosen career path, _if_ they acknowledged it as a career path at all.

"So where are you from?" Mr. A asks.

It's a simple question, but on top of asking about post-high school plans, Alfred feels as though he's being interrogated.

"Uncle," Francis hisses, the anxiety on Alfred's face apparent.

"What? I only asked where he was from. It's an innocent enough question."

"Oh, it's fine." Alfred butts in. "I'm from Shiverpool, Washington."

"Shiverpool!" Mr.A's eyebrows shoot up. "Well that's a secluded little place, isn't it?"

"You've been?" Alfred has never met someone who knows about his little town who hadn't lived there themselves.

"Once or twice." Mr. A nods. "Though, I can't imagine you get any good practice there, what with how calm the water is"

Something in Alfred deflates. "It's not _that_ calm."

"Compared to the waves here? You've been surfing on ripples in the water, boy."

Alfred scowls down at his plate, suddenly deciding that he's not going to eat anymore of this grotesque fish just to please this guy.

"Well if you're full," Mr. A says when Alfred puts his fork in the middle of his plate, "then you had best get some practice on the real waves."

"Yeah," Alfred sulks, clearing his plate. Practice in front of all those people again? And with what? He doesn't even have a board anymore. His last one got smashed by the same wave that smashed him.

"Come on," the older man says, strapping his sandals on. "I'd better walk you back. Those trails can get awfully tricky to walk through when they're wet."

"It's a rainforest," Alfred remarks. "Isn't it always wet?"

Mr. A chuckles. "Yes, I suppose so. Either way, we'd best get a move on."

Alfred just sighs and lets Mr. A lead the way.

* * *

"So where are _you_ from?" Alfred asks as they walk leisurely down the trail. Or, at least Mr. A is walking. Alfred is stumbling along, trying to keep his last remaining shoe from being sucked off by the thick mud to join its brother. He's already slipped twice and now has more muddy spots on him than clean spots.

"Native islander. Born and raised." Mr. A smirks proudly.

"Oh." Alfred dodges a huge leaf spilling out onto the path. "That's kinda cool."

"Mmhmm." The man seems preoccupied with something, and then stops walking. They're in the same spot, next to the half-rotten log, where Alfred had stopped two hours or so earlier. "When we get to the end of the trail...you're not going to the beach, are you?"

Alfred frowns. "Probably not...I mean, not yet anyway. Not after that."

"Kid," Mr. A sits down on the log (which, frankly, Alfred's suprised can hold anyone's weight). "You can't let pride keep you from surfing if you really love it that much."

Alfred lets out an indignant huff. "Easy for _you_ to say. Heck, even if I did go back, I don't have a board anymore."

"You could always use a rental,"

"I don't want to use some crappy rental," Alfred grumbles.

"You're a picky one, aren't you?" Mr. A looks up at Alfred skeptically, and Alfred knows what he must be thinking: beggars can't be choosers. Alfred is _not_ using a rental, though. A surfboard _means_ something to him. He wants to get to know it and go through things together without just having to turn it back in at the end of the day.

Mr. A sighs. "Well in that case, did you even look at what I'm sitting on?"

"A rotten log?" Alfred raises an eyebrow.

Mr. A rolls his eyes. "No genius, it's an _Kizerain wood_ log."

Alfred stares. He's beginning to think that some gears aren't turning right in this guy's head. "So?"

" _So?"_ Mr. A sighs. "Newbie. All the best boards are made from Kizerain wood. If you want to get serious about surfing, you'll need an Kizerain wood board."

Alfred casts another glance at the log. The thing is done for! "But it's _rotten."_

"Just the bark." He peels a piece of soggy bark back to reveal the fresh, dry beige wood underneath.

"Alright." Alfred squints at the fallen tree, trying and failing to imagine a surfboard coming out of the blackened piece of junk. "So, say that this tree _is_ still viable. What do you expect me to do? Just _carve_ a board out of it?"

Mr. A laughs, loud and hard. "No way am I trusting _you_ with such a valuable resource. No, _we're_ going to carve you a surfboard."  
Alfred glances down at the fallen log, just as a grotesque and rather large white maggot burrows its way out of the bark. He truly can't see this stump becoming anything, but a smirk spreads across his face in spite of himself.

"It's what kind of tree, again?" Alfred asks.

"A Kizerain tree." Mr. A mumbles idly as he looks over the rest of the log, checking for more damage. "You've honestly never heard of them before?"

Alfred frowns and shakes his head.

"And you call yourself a surfer," the old man scoffs.

"Hey!" Alfred shouts. Mr. A ignores him.

"Alright buddy, let's get this thing back to the house and start carving," he says, wedging his fingers underneath the heavy log and preparing to lift it up. "You get that end. We'll lift on three."

"Your house?" Alfred asks, complying and grabbing his end of the log nevertheless. "Why not go down to the beach and carve it there? There's a lot more room there."

Mr.A frowns. "Not a big fan of all the crowds."

"Well yeah, neither am I right now, but I'm sure there are some beaches on this island that are abandoned."

"Oh just pick the log up and start walking," Mr. A rolls his eyes. "I'm done talking about this."

"Fine."

"One… two… _three!"_ Both strain under the weight of the log, finally lifting it unsteadily. They're both panting before they make it ten feet.

Alfred stumbles and slides on the wet, mossy mud several times, pulling his end of the log back.

" _Careful!"_ Mr. A grumbles.

"I'm _trying-agh!"_ Alfred calls back as he stumbles again.

Mr. A sighs and stops for a second. "Stop walking heel-first. You'll just sink into the ground and slide. Spread your weight out evenly, the whole foot flat. And keep your stance a bit lower- it'll help with balance."

Alfred shifts around a bit, trying to follow his instructions.

"Better?" Mr. A asks when it seems as though Alfred has gained better footing.

"Yeah, actually. Thanks. It's kinda like surfing."

"A little bit, I guess," Mr. A shrugs.

"You surf?" Alfred raises his eyebrows. Mr. A doesn't strike him as much of a surfer. More the grumpy old man "get off my lawn you darned kids" type… like Francis said.

"No," he answers quickly, glancing back over his shoulder at Alfred with a scorning look. Alfred swallows and follows behind in silence, not daring to ask another question on the topic.

* * *

If you're in an area where it's been snowing, stay safe! Watch for ice on the roads!

thedayislippedaway16: Right you are! :)


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